


Don't Throw Me Overboard, Baby

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Sam, Curtain Fic, First Time, M/M, Season Ten, Touch-Starved Sam, angst-to-fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:57:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2821142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's life takes a turn for the soul-crushingest worst when he finally gets what he wants-- Dean. Dean comes to him in the middle of the night after becoming human again, but pretends nothing happened during the day. He still goes home with girls at the bar, and he gets this strange look in his eyes that tears Sam apart. Broken up and broken down, Sam gets with a guy at the bar, and it all comes crumbling down at once. Sam's afraid of what they'll become after this. (I suck at writing descriptions-- it starts out angsty but ends very sexily)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Throw Me Overboard, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS THE LONGEST THING I HAVE EVER WRITTEN. Compared to the 225k first-parts of some other fics I've seen, it doesn't appear to be much, but this is a huge milestone for me and I'm goddamn proud of it. I'm proud as shit of this fic. I've been able to watch myself grow and change my writing style and I hope you guys really enjoy this next installment.

Sam’s head was fucking spinning.

He felt like an old, archaic computer with too much data to process at once. He simply couldn’t keep up. He could almost hear the strained groans and dial up beeps coming from inside his head, coupled with this panicked message, repeated in ones and zeroes:

_What the fuck?_

Too much had happened in too little a span of time. First, he’d gotten his brother back from demonhood or whatever, thank god, and second, they were hunting again, which he had mixed feelings about, and third, his brother had woken him up in the middle of the night and kissed him.

Yeah, he’d kissed him. Dean Winchester, Mr. I-Can-Have-Any-Girl-In-A-Fifty-Mile-Radius had decided to kiss his little brother, Sammy Winchester, out of everyone in the entire universe. Sam had woken to his bed creaking loudly, the shitty motel mattress bending down as Dean sat down on it. Sam had sat up immediately, asking Dean what was wrong. Dean had laughed and asked if anything had to be wrong in ragged soft whisper, and before Sam could respond with something mildly depressing, Dean’s lips were on his, soft and encouraging, pushing him back down onto the bed.

And because Sam had had a soul-crushing crush for his brother for as long as he could remember, the only sound he’d made was a squeak of surprise before just kissing Dean back. Dean had taken that as a good sign and straddled Sam- fucking  _straddled_ him, jesus christ- making out with him in the odd hours of the night like secret teenage lovers. Sam’s hands had found Dean’s hips, and it was all fucking surreal, and just as Dean started to grind down on him, he was gone.

Sam watched, baffled, as Dean flopped back down into his own bed and buried his face in the pillow. Sam blinked and his heart sped up, a sort of acidic heat rising through his chest. Had Dean been sleepwalking? Did that mean nothing? Was it consensual?

“Dean?” Sam whispered shakily, hunkering down in his bed for it’s imaginary safety qualities. He stared across the gap at his brother and tugged the thin motel sheet higher up around his body. “Dean?” he tried again, a little bit louder.

“Just go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean had croaked back, his voice tired and a little bit guilty, and Sam had been given his answer.

Shaken and breathless and heated up and really fucking hard, Sam had lain in bed on his back, staring up at the ceiling and refusing to touch himself. He felt his stomach turn as doubt seethed inside him.

In the morning, Dean wouldn’t talk about it. More than that, he ignored Sam’s questions, acted like Sam was insane, like nothing had happened that night. Like they hadn’t just incited an earth-shattering change in Sam’s life that was leaving him reeling. It was driving Sam nuts.

And yet Dean kept coming back, night after night, and things got more serious.

They were in a bar, in a town between Lebanon and wherever their previous hunt had been. That showed how displaced Sam felt, how out of sync— he couldn’t even remember the name of the town they had just been in for three fucking weeks, the town Dean had fucked him in for the first time.

Still, he hoped being back at home would screw his head back on straight. Or, more importantly, Dean’s. Maybe they’d finally get a chance to talk about the Thing that had developed between them recently. He hoped Dean would be rational about it- Sam really enjoyed the sex, it was literally a wet dream coming true- but he knew better. This was really fucking Dean up, and he was going to lock it up inside himself.

Well, Sam wouldn’t stand for that. He loved Dean. In his head, where it was safe, he wasn’t afraid to say it. Sometimes he repeated it, over and over, testing if it was still true. It always was. He loved Dean with every tiny little fiber in his body. Every nook and cranny of his self was squeezed full with Dean,  _Dean Dean Dean_. With the same surety that he knew he loved Dean, he knew fucking your little brother and then pretending it didn’t happen in the morning weren’t the actions of someone in a healthy mindset.

So, as it was the job of the little brother, Sam was gonna set things right, no matter the consequences. He could go without the sex. He  _had_  gone without the sex— for thirty-goddamn-two years of his life, actually. His hand and a colorful imagination had been good enough then, and it wouldn’t be too hard to go back. Especially now that he had some actual memories to work with.

“Deep in thought there, sugar?” Dean asked sarcastically, putting the beer bottle to his lips and watching Sam idly.

 _Of course I am, jesus christ Dean, please work with me, this is driving me nuts,_  he wanted to gripe, staring at Dean’s lips, but knew it wouldn’t do any good, would only pry further open the weird fissure between them. Instead, he shrugged mutely, picking up his own bottle and taking his first sip. Setting his drink down, he jerked his head, sending the lock of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes back into place. The music was loud and repetitive, drowning out any chance of real conversation and lending a stifling feeling to the whole bar. Dean set his bottle down, empty, and waved over the bartender, a cheeky grin splitting across his features as he nodded his chin up at her once— a silent  _how you doin’_? that Sam knew the meaning of too fucking well.

Sam was at a loss. There wasn’t anything he could say. It was normal Dean behavior, and Dean was doing normal Dean things by leaning across the bar and complimenting her eyes, no matter how crazily it wound Sam up. The way they were now? The hard, aroused touches at night that only wanted pleasure? How Dean had turned away and grunted when Sam tried to kiss him, and just sped up his rhythm, the mattress creaking louder? That was the weird stuff. That was atypical Dean behavior. Sam was between a depressing, huge, heart-smothering rock and a super hard place, pun intended.

Sam watched them silently, ignored by both, and knew with a sick certainty that Dean was going to be taking her home tonight. Dean was going to drive her to the motel, and push her down on the same bed he’d climbed on top of Sam in the night before.

Sam wasn’t really listening to their conversation, his ears burning red as he tried not to explode, but she said something in a tone of voice that was unmistakable, that was one-hundred-percent flirtation and implication, and Dean laughed in response, he fucking laughed, throwing his head back, baring the machinations of his throat.

Sam shrugged to no one in particular, slightly drunk, and downed the rest of his beer in one determined go, persistently not trying to think about how he’d been trying to make Dean laugh or even smile for weeks since he’d become human again and hadn’t succeeded once.

Sam knew he’d set his beer bottle down just a tad bit aggressively, the loud thump causing both the bartender and Dean to jump. He knew he must look all shades of red and angry and fucked up, but he didn’t care. He heard Dean ask something, the intonation mild.

“I’m just gonna get some air. Have fun, Dean,” he said, grinning with Herculean effort, staring at the wall directly to Dean’s left, unable to make actual eye contact. He hoped his tone sounded normal, sounded encouraging, in the way normal brothers egg each other on.  _Get some ass, Dean. Have a good time. It’s fine, I swear. It’s not like every time I’ve ever watched you do this has torn me apart inside. No big deal._

Sam had only just shoved his way out into the cool night air before he was on his knees, the pavement hard and unforgiving beneath him. The world spun as he retched, one hand around his waist and the other holding him up from falling into his own shitty mess. Someone passed by, a mass of jeans and furry boots and made a disgusted noise at him, but he didn’t care. When it felt like he’d emptied out pretty much the entire contents of his stomach, he sat back on his haunches, scrubbing a hand down his face. His mouth tasted vile. He scooted backward until his back slammed into the brick facade of the building behind him, pushing the breath out of his lungs in a little whoosh.

Since when did Dean have such power over him?

 _Since forever_ _,_  he thought back at himself immediately, despondently, agonizing at how true it was. He wished he could be like Dean, could wake up and it wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t hurt. He wished he could just flash a smile at someone, easy as that, and go back home with them. Fuck the hurt away. But that’s not how Sam was. That’s not how he operated.

Running a hand through his hair, he sighed, watching his breath puff out and ghost up to the sky. He looked at the stars, ignoring the moisture beading in his eyes, and wrapped his jacket tighter around his torso.

He didn’t know how long he stayed out there like that— countless bodies had passed him by, wrapped up in each other, laughing and cuddling up in the chilly weather. He watched them, perfectly aware of how sappy and bitter he was being. He allowed himself the moment. Anyone in his oddly-specific and tragedy-filled shoes would do the same.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, causing him to jerk in alarm before he remembered the cause. With trembling fingers, he tugged his phone out of his pants pocket, swiping the screen to see the message he’d gotten.

_-Going home with Gemma. Don’t wait up. And take care of that raincloud before you come home, alright Sammy?_

Having his brother see him in such a state would only sour his night further, so Sam stumbled into an upright position and took off walking in the direction of the motel. At least it wouldn’t be happening on his bed, he told himself. At least he’d be separated from it until Dean stumbled home at four A.M., loud and sated and smelling like her.

He heard the Impala’s engine rumble and then the car breezed past him, Dean’s hand silhouetted in the window as he waved at Sam. Sam waved back jerkily, the movement instinctive and awkward. Just as soon as the car was there, it was gone, and Sam did his best to not think about where it was going. Shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets, Sam tromped on home, cars speeding past and sending up rainwater and freezing cold breezes that sliced right through him. His hair, which he would usually die defending, was now persistently and annoyingly flapping around in front of his face, getting tangled and ruffled and obstructing his vision.

Just as he managed to swipe a clump of brown hair out of the way, a car sped by a little too close to the curb, sending up a spray of muddy, oily water all over his clothes. As if on cue, another brisk wind jerked along and threw his hair right back into his face.

It felt like the entire universe was intentionally shitting on him. And just specifically him, too— like a little localized pile of utter crap and desolation. He hoped there wasn’t some big target on his back that said “SHIT ON THIS”, but with his luck throughout the years, there probablywas one, lit up in flashing neon lights. He ducked his head down and sped up the pace, desperate for a warm shower and a pillow to bury his face in and maybe cry a little.

Eons later, the motel rose over the crest of the hill, the flat cement architecture that hadn’t been cleaned in years beckoning to Sam. The flickering “VACANCY” sign was missing four of the letters, and the motel’s actual sign was completely dark, and there was something so familiar and homey about the absolute shittiness that made Sam jog the last few blocks, shaking and shivering, his cheeks tinged red. It took him a few tries to get the key into the lock, but finally his brain caught up with his hands and the door clicked and fell open. Sam almost cried with relief.

He stumbled into the room, shrugging off his jacket and letting it fall wherever, toeing out of his boots and collapsing onto his bed. He laid there on his stomach, bunching up the musty pillow in his arms and just breathing it in, before the stench covering his clothes made itself known and he knew he would have to get up.

God damn it.

His groan muffled by the pillowcase, he let himself roll off the bed and tumble to the floor. No one was around to watch him, anyway. He sat up, stretching and feeling the bones in his back crack and pop. He put his hands on the nightstand, and with monumental effort, got into a vertical position. He made his way to the bathroom, hobbling like an old man.

The shower felt too fucking good. The water pressure was supernaturally stellar in a place like this, and the heat seemed to last. He let the drops pound against his skin, soaking it in. The entire bathroom was steamed up, like he was standing on the inside of a cloud. He made quick work of soaping himself up and washing it off, but stayed in the shower longer, letting the heat work out his aches and kinks. He kept his mind purposefully blank, as voidlike as the room around him.

After awhile, he felt loose and relaxed, but his body still wouldn’t stop shivering. Little tremors rocked through his entire body, from his toes to his fingers, ceaselessly. He knew that was probably a bad sign, but the shower was slowing his thoughts, filling his head with cotton. And it just felt so  _nice._

The decision to stay in the shower wasn’t really conscious, but he sure as hell wasn’t moving. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile wall, not giving a single fuck about the suspicious stains laden throughout the grout, and closed his eyes. The shower water got a little cooler, but he wasn’t complaining. He felt quite warm, actually. As if he were wrapped up in a warm, fuzzy, world-muffling blanket.

The moment he knew he was legitimately in trouble was the same moment his hearing went, the susurrus of the water hitting the tub getting replaced with a low ringing in his ears and an insistent ache in the center of his forehead. He felt like he was floating, like the motel bathroom had legitimately been transported into a cloud— it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that had happened to him. His hands were full of pins and needles and his legs were progressively filling with more and more jello.

With a tiny whimper that would put even the cutest baby to shame, the feeling in his legs gave out and his eyes rolled back, his head knocking against the soap dish with a loud crack as he blacked out.

—

Sam wished that he had a fucking fly swatter or something.

A constant, unignorable, and annoying-as-fuck buzz just wouldn’t leave him alone. It weaseled its way into his head, pounding a hammer against his brain with the intensity of a door-to-door salesman whose boss was breathing down his ass. The noise was repetitive, too, a monosyllabic rhythmic chant that pulsed in time with the blood rushing to his head.

He felt more than heard himself groan, a vibration in his throat that somehow served to help him gain just a little bit more consciousness. The buzzing turned more distinct, and he realized it was a specific word being chanted, not by some annoying bug but by a recognizable voice.

_Sam. Sam. Sam. Sammy, please. Sam?_

It was his name. Someone was calling his name.

He opened his eyes as much as he could, squinting at the bright light that immediately intruded his sight. Something blocked out the light, something that developed into a face the more he stupidly gawked at it.

Dean. Dean was leaning over him. He watched Dean’s mouth move, heard his name called again, the concern unmistakable. Sam blinked.

He was lying on the bathroom floor, naked but practically drowning in towels and one motel bed comforter, apparently having been dragged out of the shower by Dean. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows to take a look around, but Dean’s hands were on his shoulders, gentle but firm, pushing him back down. There was a towel balled up beneath Sam’s head, and it made the throbbing in his head more tolerable.

“You with me now, kiddo?” Dean asked, valiantly trying to stop the shaking in his voice and failing.

“What happened?” Sam asked. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton and his voice was softer than he’d intended. He licked his lips, swallowed. He looked up at Dean, frowning. “Dean?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted, looking away. “I, uh… I came home after only like fifteen minutes with Gemma. I just wasn’t feeling it, I guess. You were in the shower and I called to you and you didn’t respond. I just thought you were moping. But like twenty minutes passed and still nothing, so I walked in… and the shower was filled with blood and your head was bent at a fucked up angle and I thought—” Dean choked up, pursing his lips and blinking back tears before continuing. “Anyway, you were shivering like a man possessed, so I got you out and warmed you up and I’ve just been waiting for you to wake up.”

“How long’s it been?” Sam’s voice slurred as he blinked hard, trying to keep Dean in focus. Dean cocked his head, and Sam tried again. “How long’s it been since you pulled me out?”

Dean’s adam’s apple bobbed. “Around thirty minutes.”

 _Shit_ _._  Sam knew that was a bad sign. He rolled his neck and saw Dean had scrubbed the shower clean of all of his blood. He looked back at Dean, who was watching him carefully, trying to school his features so Sam wouldn’t see the fear and panic, but Sam could see right through him.

“At least I’m not still shivering,” he offered weakly, flickering a low-wattage but high-effort smile at his brother.

Dean smiled back, nodding slightly. “You do have a concussion though.”

Sam bit his lip, propping himself up on his elbows. This time, Dean didn’t stop him. “Can you…” he stopped when his voice wobbled. “Can you help me to the bed?”

Dean nodded mutely. He looked down at Sam’s towel-covered body and raised an eyebrow. “Do you want some… er…?”

Sam blushed, looking away. “I’m so tired… could we just go without?” he asked, his voice smaller than he would’ve liked, but he would also like not to be concussed, so his pride was tarnished only slightly.

Dean nodded again, and Sam hated the guilty look that was souring Dean’s features. Dean reached forward and put his arms under Sam’s armpits, reaching around his back and hauling him up into a sitting position. The towels slid off his torso. Sam realized he was decidedly less lucid than he’d previously thought when he slumped limpy against Dean’s chest, Dean uttering a soft “oof” as Sam’s chin struck his shoulder.

“Sorry… fuck, sorry…” Sam mumbled, his voice muffled by Dean’s jacket. Dean laughed lightly, sliding his arms around Sam’s waist without warning and using all of his power to lift him upright. Sam yelped in surprise and slumped against the bathroom counter, his legs wobbling as Dean kept an arm firmly around his waist in support.

“You good?” Dean breathed, his mouth close to Sam’s ear.

Sam grimaced. “Yeah, I’m… fuck, this is worse than I thought. I shouldn’t have taken a shower, I’m sorry.”

He felt Dean stiffen. “Shut up, none of this is your fault,” Dean told him heatedly, and took a step forward. “Can you walk?”

Sam knew this was one of Dean’s tactics— he hated talking about things, hated baring his soul and he knew Dean was placing some of the blame on himself. Before this moment, Sam would’ve agreed— he’d been pretty pissed at Dean for awhile now, but inching slowly toward the bed with his brother as his only strength, he just couldn’t get himself to be angry. He let Dean have his moment of apology, let it slide on by. “I think I’m good,” he huffed instead, placing all his concentration into matching his steps with Dean’s.

“Just like that stupid friggin’ sack race you made me go to at the end of your seventh grade year,” Dean muttered, reading Sam’s thoughts.

“Shut up, you offered to go, you loser. You wanted to show off your sack race skills to a group of unwitting twelve-year-olds.”

“Whatever,” Dean grumped, and he placed his hands on Sam’s hips, as gentle as someone would handle a kitten. Sam felt parts of him warm up and he flushed at Dean’s caring touch, trying to get his stupid body under control. Dean sat him down on his bed, making sure he didn’t land too heavily.

It was that moment his brain chose to remind him that he was bare-assed naked.

Fuck.

Dean mistranslated his sudden uncomfortableness as the desire to get into bed and sleep it off, so he continued manhandling his brother, lifting his legs up and tucking them under the blankets. He tucked Sam in just like he used to when they were kids and Dad was gone, as professional as any parent. He pushed Sam’s hair behind his ear when he was done, using the pretext of inspecting Sam’s face for any damage. He nodded once to himself, apparently satisfied, and stayed sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, unmoving.

Sam waited, a lump in his throat.

“Sam, I’m sorry,” Dean finally said, clearing his throat and looking up at his brother. “I shouldn’t have made you walk back for some girl. I should’ve seen how you were in the bar and stayed with you… but I didn’t. You almost got pneumonia and you’re concussed and that’s on me. So, when you’re better, if you wanna take a few slugs… I’ll take the hits.” Dean cleared his throat and looked around the room, his eyes roving everywhere except Sam.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Sam whispered, trying his best to stay awake for this even though his body was shutting down. “You came back. From her. That’s all that matters.”

Dean nodded, staring holes in the sheets and picking at the loose threads. He looked back up at Sam, letting some emotion bleed through, the rawest Sam had seen him in awhile, and he raised his hands to Sam’s bare collarbone, lightly dusting his fingers over it.

“And I don’t want to hit you, Dean. Maybe if you’d just talk to me about what’s been going on recently, though.” he added, thinking  _fuck it_  and going out on a limb, maybe this was the break he’d been looking for to change things.

Sam’s heartbeat sped up as he watched Dean. Dean’s hands slid up from his collarbone to his jaw, and he cupped Sam’s face, tilting it upward and leaning in.

 _Is this really happening?!_  Sam’s thoughts raced a mile a minute and his eyes fluttered shut in a ridiculous display of soaring hope. He thought Dean had finally come around, that the apology was rooted in something more, that Sam would have a chance to properly learn his brother’s skin, this time not hidden in darkness and urgency and shame.

But Dean’s lips brushed his forehead, and Dean kissed him there instead. Dean leaned back and turned away from Sam, not even looking at him. He went over to his own bed and turned out the light.

“Get some rest, Sam,” he said, and Sam was suddenly so awake, so fucking awake and his head was pounding and his heart ached just the same.

It felt like history was repeating itself.

—

The rest of the week passed by slowly.

Dean paid for some extra time in their current motel room, and even splurged a little and stole Sam another comforter from one of the empty rooms. Almost twenty-four seven, Dean didn’t leave Sam’s side, giving him breakfast in bed and threatening to beat him up if he complained. Not that Sam was going to complain— even if he’d rather die than admit it out loud, he absolutely loved being babied by Dean, being cooed over. He was practically glowing, alternating between eating only his favorite organic foods (without comment from Dean) and sleeping off his concussion. Under Dean’s ministrations, his head cleared up, but sometimes he would still act a little off-kilter just to make Dean’s soft touches linger a little longer.

He was going to take what he could get.

—

After a few days, though, the glamor of Dean not letting him even walk around for more than a couple of minutes was starting to inevitably wear off. Plus, Dean’s self-righteous guilt and the fact they hadn’t touched in That way since before the bar incident were sort of grinding Sam’s fucking gears, maybe just a little bit.

Dean was sitting at the kitchenette table, a hand on his chin and eyes flicking across the computer screen. The moment Sam shifted, though, his eyes went straight to Sam’s. Sam had to consciously refrain from rolling his eyes as he put his feet to the floor and stood up, stretching and cracking his back like a languid cat.

“I can stand without passing out, Dean,” he said, turning his back to his brother and digging through his duffel bag to find a pair of jeans and a shirt.

“I didn’t say anything,” Dean grouched, shutting the lid to Sam’s laptop a little forcefully.

“Dude, you’re practically oozing matronly vibes right now, you didn’t need to say anything,” Sam retorted, ducking his head and smiling at the immediate scoff of disbelief uttered by Dean.

He must’ve won that one, because Dean didn’t say anything else, so he sat down on the edge of his bed and stuck his feet into his jeans. He knew he’d made one of those stupid mistakes that Dean would usually remind him of for years to come when he stood up to pull his jeans all the way up and started falling forward like a dumbass, his feet caught in a hole in the material.

Just as suddenly as gravity was making a fool of him, Dean was there, a warm, solid presence that grunted a little as a half-pantsed Sam slumped into his arms, his face buried in Dean’s chest. Dean’s hands were uncomfortably supporting him by the armpits, his own arms flailing out uselessly behind Dean. They stayed like that for a strange, wordless moment, the scent of Dean all around Sam, Dean’s breaths even and slow in his chest. After a couple seconds, Dean made a little noise of consternation and wrapped his arms around Sam, smushing his brother even further into his chest before leaning back and settling Sam on the bed.

Sam expected Dean to pull away, to stand tall over him and smirk about what a klutz Sam was, but Dean did the opposite— burrowing his nose into Sam’s shoulder, his arms tight and secure around Sam’s back. He squeezed Sam tightly once, then snaked his arms away, ruffling Sam’s hair before standing up. “Tell me when you actually can stand without passing out,” Dean said lightly, looking down at Sam and smiling faintly. There was something in his gaze, something almost indiscernible— something Sam was sure he was only person on the earth who could spot it.

And he didn’t know what it meant.  Which was driving him fucking nuts. Was it love? Guilt? Shame? Regret? Adoration? Dean’s emotions weren’t supposed to be a jigsaw puzzle to him. He prided himself on being able to read Dean, always, as if he had a little handy manual on what a grind of Dean’s jaw or a crinkle of his crow’s feet meant (barely-constrained anger and joy, respectively), but this time, the corresponding page in his book was blank. For all he knew, it was disappointment, disgust, and pity, rolled up into one fine mixture.

God damn it.

Universe Shitting On Sam: 2 

Sam: -2

Dean didn’t seem to notice Sam’s internal collapse, and he moved away, humming an off-key Led Zeppelin song and shuffling through one of his duffels, clearly digging for something. He leaned down, shuffling through various clothes, and his shirt rode up on his back, revealing a tiny stripe of skin at the small of his back, his jeans riding a bit low on his ass. There was a small pink scar running horizontally, a piece of barbed wire, ghost. 2000-ish. Dean froze, a grey tee in one hand, and turned to face Sam, an eyebrow raised. He was smiling in the way that kindergarten teachers do when their students can’t spell their name right.

Had Sam fucked up again, somehow? Did he see the look in Sam’s eyes, the desperation? All he could do was meet Dean’s stare, mute and meek and really wanting a fucking drink, hoping Dean would explain his moods, for better or for worse. Sam scoffed at himself internally. Dean clearing his throat shook him out of his self-deprecation, and he forced himself to focus. Moment of truth.

“Dude,” Dean said, shaking his head. “Put your pants on.”

Oh.

Sam didn’t know if that fell under the universe shitting on him or if he should open up another column for Sam Being a Dumbass. He decided to let it slide, to cheat his own mental system. Blushing a bright, miserable shade of red, he shucked his jeans on, not risking standing up this time and just bouncing on the bed a little to get them past his ass.

Dean watched him and raised a stupid eyebrow, but otherwise didn’t comment. He then turned around, doing some inane task or another. Sam couldn’t be bothered to focus on it. He was too busy wallowing in his own misery, shaking a metaphorical fist at the universe and at Dean, and at his heart-stopping, soul-burning, all-encompassing love and desire for his brother.

He could use a god damn drink.

At that thought, a little metaphorical lightbulb went on above his head.

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat and standing, putting a lot of mental willpower into staying upright. He buttoned up the front of his jeans and zipped up just as Dean turned around. “You wanna go out and have a couple of drinks?”

Dean’s eyebrows shot upward, and he looked up and down Sam, then over his shoulder, then he turned around and looked behind himself. Sam waited impatiently, one of his legs jiggling up and down as Dean did his little theatrics.

“Did my actual flesh-and-blood brother… Sam Winchester just say that? Offer to go to a bar?” He gasped, a hand fluttering dramatically to his mouth. “My god, you really are out of it, aren’t you?”

Sam felt a flush of anger rise throughout him, but he was too tired to get into a proper row with Dean right now. “Shut up, you asshole, and take the opportunity before I change my mind.”

Dean let out a small whoop and grabbed his jacket, shrugging it on as he snagged the Impala’s keys from the motel nightstand. Instead of bursting out into the night and flashing the headlights impatiently into the room until Sam hauled his ass, he waited calmly by the door, keenly watching Sam’s every move but flinging careless insults at his brother to disguise his concern.

Sam was touched for a second that Dean still had enough of a brain to watch out for him even when it was their first barhop since The Incident, which happened two weeks ago now. Dean was probably feeling deprived of the uncomfortable atmosphere and shitty, overpriced beer.

Sam was, inevitably, regretting his offer, but Dean seemed happy, so he just wrapped his coat securely his torso and prayed that nothing would go wrong this time.

Even then, it seemed futile.

—-

It was the same fucking bar— it had to be, in this dive of a town, there was only one real bar. Which was, of course, also a dive.

The fact that it was the same goddamn one where Sam had thrown up, been left behind by Dean, and then almost died in a shitty shower, made it feel like Sam was literally asking for the universe to unbalance the scoreboard even further.

Dean led the way in, lightly holding Sam by the arm and ushering him inward through the crowds as if his legs were incapable of doing the job themselves. Sam didn’t comment.

They sat on two stools by the bar that were only centimeters apart— their knees brushing and Dean didn’t try to slide away, which was nice. For the first time in a very long time, Sam felt a little more normal, a little safer in his own skin and in his environment. He let himself relax as Dean ordered both of them a beer, listening to the dull murmur of voices and music and glasses clinking.

Dean nudged his elbow gently as the drinks arrived, and Sam shook himself out of his reverie, touching the neck of his bottle to Dean’s in a silent toast to his good health before they both took a swig and set the bottle down, entirely in sync.

He let his guard drop further, just a little. He took another sip from his beer and nodded his head toward his brother. “This is nice,” he commented lightly, looking at the TV behind Dean with the pretense of checking the score before actually meeting Dean’s eyes and gauging his reaction.

Dean was watching him back in the same way, their expressions mirrored. He was watching Sam for a lie, for concussed-Sam peeking through, just as Sam was watching Dean to see if he was enjoying himself.

The staredown only lasted a couple of seconds, even though it felt like a lot longer.

“It is,” Dean rumbled in agreement, tilting his chin up and surveying the bar. The low, yellowed lighting caught in his eyes in just the right way then, illuminating the green and framing the rest of Dean’s face like something better than an angel, because Sam knew from experience that angels were not as serene and holy as Dean looked. Dean smiled faintly, making a little “huh” noise and covering it up by drinking from his own bottle.

“What?” Sam asked, his voice tinged by a slight laugh, fueled by his beer-fueled buzz. He spun his stool to face Dean head-on and their knees clacked together. Sam wasn’t aware of the rest of the bars existence, honed in solely on Dean.

“I was just thinkin’,” Dean said, mischief crinkling the corners of his eyes, “maybe that little fall of yours somehow shook the stick loose from your ass.”

“Shut up!” Sam barked, laughing. He swatted Dean lightly on the forearm, and Dean raised his hands in a placating gesture, smiling back at Sam.

“I don’t hear any denial,” Dean egged him on, waggling a finger in front of Sam’s face. “Is this little trip gonna do you some good, Sammy?”

“It might,” Sam said, warning evident in his voice, “if you can curb the jackassedness.”

“You learn that word at Stanford?” Dean teased.

And, in that moment, as karma is wont to do, the universe decided to go on the offensive or whatever and shit on Sam some more. Sam opened his mouth to snipe back at Dean and was interrupted.

“Stanford, huh?” A voice trilled, and a woman appeared, bumping next to Dean and jostling him with her wide hips that narrowed into a thin waist and then a very nice chest.

Sam’s face fell, but Dean’s eyes were elsewhere— going up and down her body before slowly smiling in that pythonic way that Sam hated so fucking much.

“You gotta thing for scholarly guys?” Dean drawled, spinning his chair from Sam and creating a gap between them that Sam could almost physically feel.

With his back to Sam, Sam could only see the high tilt of Dean’s chin and the bottle held loosely in his hand, and although it wasn’t much, it was entirely suggestive. It was Dean when he thought,  _game on_ _,_  Dean when his downstairs brain gained control of the ship and sailed things further into Shitty McShittyland.

Sam tuned out their conversation, one that sounded like thousands of others, and sank into an equally-familiar stew of self-disgust and hatred aimed at Dean, a little brew of depression that Sam knew the taste of too well. Trying to ignore any bullshit symbolism in the action, Sam spun his stool slowly away from Dean and back toward the counter, beckoning the bartender for another drink.

“Whiskey,” he mouthed, and the bartender nodded, turning his back to Sam as well to pour the drink.

It was as if Sam didn’t exist to Dean anymore, that the previous excursion meant nothing and his fall meant nothing and the past two weeks meant nothing and the conversation they had two fucking minutes ago meant _nothing_ and Sam was agonized— Dean was killing him. Dean was looking at him with love in his eyes and beckoning him closer before plunging a blade right into his heart and twisting it, kissing someone else, someone better, and Sam didn’t care how cheesy it was because he was  _done._

The past few weeks had been him getting along, him getting by, finding the positives in tiny things when he shouldn’t have to. Draining the whiskey in one fell swoop, Sam mentally told himself that this was it, fuck it, he’d push Dean away from now on and they’d break apart and it wouldn’t matter, because Sam was already fucking broken. Whatever.

Lurching only slightly, he slid off the stool and made his way over to the dartboard in the corner, hoping to look aloof and very single and mysterious, so that some stranger’s arms would lead him away and he could forget about Dean for at least the night.

He knew that was practically impossible, but it wasn’t for Dean, so he didn’t stop, picking up some darts and hitting the center of the board easily. Showing off. He played a game with three guys, just for kicks, not interested and not for money. Everyone was disgustingly cheerful and such a good sport that Sam’s mood paradoxically twisted further downward, until someone brushed against his waist that smelled somehow incredibly alluring.

He turned in surprise and there was a guy right there, their hands brushing at the knuckles. He was Sam’s height exactly, and built like him too, sturdy and muscled and really fucking hot. He had black hair that went a little past his ears, and it looked artfully mussed. The scruff dotting his jaw reminded Sam of Dean’s, and he realized in surprise that he was willing to go home with this guy.

“Nice aim,” the guy said, smiling brightly at Sam with dark eyes, and Sam regarded how full his lips were. “Wanna play another round with me?”

“What are we playing for?” Sam asked, smiling back and surprising himself. The whiskey must have done him some good for once.

“Anything to do with a guy as good looking as you is good for me, honestly,” the guy told him, the light catching in his eye.

Holy shit.

“Sam,” he told the dude, extending a hand.

“Matt,” he was told, and the handshake lingered.

“I’ll tell you what, Matt,” he started, quickly gaining confidence when he realized he hadn’t checked on Dean at all yet, “for being so nice, you get to decide what we’re playing for.”

Matt raised an eyebrow and blatantly swiped his eyes up and down Sam’s body, licking his lips. A warm, jittery feeling filled Sam’s bones. “I win, I get to blow that nice cock I know you have.”

Sam’s heart doubled in pace. “And if I win?” he countered, his voice not shaking, amazingly enough.

“You get to suck me.”

“A win-win,” Sam said, and Matt laughed, his head tilted back and his neck bared.

Sam decided he was going to lose the game on purpose as he stared at Matt’s adam’s apple.

They played three quick rounds, standing hip to hip, always lightly brushing by the shoulders and thighs. Matt was warm. Sam fixed the game just as he was taught, losing by only two points and making it look like a fair game even though he could have schooled Matt. The entire time, he felt like Dean’s eyes might be boring into his back, but he was determined not to lose composure and look behind him, so he kept Dean firmly out of his line of sight.

“That’s that, then.” Matt said, shrugging and grinning cockily.

“The bathroom?” Sam gasped, suddenly aching for it, feeling deprived, feeling deserving.

Matt nodded quickly, cheeks flushed and mouth hanging slightly open. He was in the same state as Sam and they tried to walk as casually as possible to the bathroom, Matt sliding a hand into Sam’s back pocket and squeezing his ass.

The moment they were past the threshold, Sam was being slammed against the wall, and he was followed back by Matt’s lips, hard and hungry on his. Matt grinded against him, pressing their bodies flush against each other and their dicks rubbed against each other through the friction of their jeans. Sam moaned, and Matt bit Sam’s bottom lip and tugged on it. Sam thought he might’ve drawn blood and decided he liked that. Matt met Sam’s eyes for a split second before tilting his head and licking his way into Sam’s mouth, sucking on Sam’s tongue and kissing him more dirtily than he’d ever been kissed in his entire life. He was getting so hard just from this, just from kissing, from Matt’s exploring, powerful hands, and Sam couldn’t help the small whimpers that bubbled their way out of his throat.

The sex with Dean had been great, sure, but it had also been impersonal— a quick hard fuck to get off and then emptiness and guilt and confusion, no love or touch or words.

Matt was already different, and Sam tried to ignore how that clogged up his throat and stung his eyes.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hard,” Matt grunted, “gotta get these jeans off of you.”

“Yeeesss,  _please_ ,” Sam groaned, drawing his words out and knocking his head back against the dirty tiles, closing his eyes. He felt Matt’s hands palm him once through his jeans and then the button was popped and he rocked his hips to help slide his pants down to his ankles. He looked down, just for a second, and Matt was looking at the wet spot on his boxers with heavy-lidded eyes. He yanked Sam’s boxers down and actually fucking whistled, rubbing his face slowly along the shaft of Sam’s cock while meeting Sam’s eyes, all dark and lustful.

 _Shit shit shit._  His cock jumped and Matt chuckled, standing back up and sucking a deep dark bruise along Sam’s neck, Sam arching his neck back to give Matt better access. Sam’s eyes fluttered shut and he jerked his hips uselessly against Matt’s, mumbling and begging for Matt to do more, he needed more, please.

“So hot for me, huh?” Matt breathed against his neck before sinking to his knees, wrapping his hands around the meat of Sam’s thighs for support. He licked at Sam’s slit, lapping up the precome welling and dripping there and Sam kept his eyes shut, focusing on how fucking good it felt to be paid attention to like this. It felt like years since he’d been with anyone like this. He realized with a jolt that that was true.

Right on time, Matt licked the underside of Sam’s dick before swallowing the head and starting to slowly bob, his tongue swiping along the sensitive spots on Sam’s dick in just the right way. Just as Matt was starting to get going in earnest, Sam listening to his sloppy sounds, the door burst open and Matt was gone.

His eyes shot open, and he saw Dean’s hand fisted in Matt’s jacket, yanking him away and off of Sam. Dean had a look of endless fury blazing in his eyes, a dark, seething anger that Sam hadn’t ever seen before, and it terrified him.

“What the f-” was all Matt got out, his mouth surrounded by spit and Sam’s precome, before Dean’s fist was swinging at his face, cracking across his nose and spraying blood across the walls. Dean had aimed to hurt, aimed to maim, breaking Matt’s nose and smashing it into his face. Matt moaned in pain, stumbling to his knees and covering his face with his hands. Dean stepped forward, and Sam panicked, Dean was gonna fucking kill this guy.

Sam cried out some protest he couldn’t remember a second later and grabbed Dean by the shoulders, stopping him from advancing on a cowering and noisily crying Matt. Dean turned to him then, the hate still in his eyes, and Sam gaped.

“What the  _fuck_ , Dean!” he yelled. “You fucking goddamn hypocrite! Don’t fucking kill the guy, he didn’t do anything wrong!”

Dean seemed to come back to himself for a moment there, blinking, looking back and forth between Sam and Matt with narrowed eyes. He was breathing heavily, his shoulders moving up and down with each inhale and exhale. His hands were balled into fists and shaking, and Sam was struck wordless by how unravelled Dean was.

“We’re leaving,” Dean bit out hoarsely, looking away from Matt guiltily as Matt continued to sniffle and whine. “Button up your pants.”

Sam had forgotten about that. He was flaccid now, drained and dismally sober. He pulled his boxers back on wordlessly, then his pants, buttoning up and following Dean out through the bar and into the parking lot. He got into the passenger seat without casting a single look at Dean, and Dean paused outside for a couple of seconds, the bottom half of his torso the only thing visible through the side window, before getting into the car and stuffing the key into the ignition, peeling the Impala out of the parking lot and onto the street. The radio didn’t play, and they didn’t speak, Dean navigating them home at twice the speed limit.

Sam stared out the passenger side window, watching the shitty Americana scenery whiz by. Gas station, McDonalds, empty strip mall, overgrown field. The sadness inside him was slowly replaced by a keen, sharp anger. Dean’s hypocrisy, Dean’s violence, and Dean’s treatment of him were just too much for him now.

He wasn’t excited for the argument they were about to have, knew it could end in one of them leaving, but he also knew that it had to happen. That ever since that first night and that first kiss, they had been building up to this.

_Love him or lose him._

Sam swallowed thickly and crammed his hands into his pockets, watching as, like a bad omen, the motel rose into view over the crest of the hill, another letter missing from the red no vacancy sign. Dean parked them in the spot right in front of their unit, and they got out, one at a time, disjointed. Sam entered the room and knew Dean wouldn’t be far behind him.

He stood in the center of the room, facing the door like it was dealing out his judgement, and scrubbed a hand down his face. For a moment, his features twisted and screwed up in despair, his vision going blurry with tears, but the knob turned and Sam was able to school his features in the time it took for Dean to open the door all the way and shut it closed behind him with a little click of finality.

Dean turned to face him, and the silence and space between them spanned for what felt like eternity. Dean took one step forward, but saw the look in Sam’s eyes and halted, freezing like a deer in the headlights. He scoffed and shook his head, staring at the stained carpet. “I’d say I need a drink, but.” He cleared his throat, grimacing as if he’d swallowed something rotten.

“Fuck you,” Sam spat out immediately, venomously, advancing on Dean. “How can you not— how can you fucking not see what’s fucking wrong with this fucking picture?!”

“Getting a little R-rated there, Sammy,” Dean joked, voice wavering.

 _“Just listen to me for once, Dean, god damn it!_ _”_  Sam roared, too far gone to curb his anger, ignoring the knock on the wall from another grumpy motel guest.

Dean’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, but he didn’t open his mouth, which Sam considered to be progress. Sam took a deep breath and continued, willing the red to fade from his eyes.

“We’re going to fucking talk about it,” he started, taking on a warning tone, never flinching from Dean’s gaze. “We’re going to fucking talk about everything, or I swear to god, I’m going to put a bullet in my own head. And you’re going to shut up and listen to me.”

Dean’s adam’s apple bobbed, and he nodded. Their eyes were drawn to each other’s, for better or for worse, a force stronger than magnetism, creating a charged atmosphere that was holding both of them captive until it culminated into something. Sam was afraid, he kept imagining the worst-case scenario, of Dean biting out some awful truth and leaving and never coming back. And that being the end of them, just a door and a car engine gunning away, with nothing left to salvage.

They both seemed to realize, via each other’s eyes, that this wasn’t going to happen easily.

“Why did it start,” Sam finally croaked out helplessly, more of a statement than a question, “why did it start if it meant nothing to you? Why did you keep coming back if kissing me makes you sick?”

“You’ve got it wrong,” Dean shot back, shaking his head and curling and uncurling his hands uselessly at his sides. “You don’t know how wrong you are.”

“Then what’s the truth?” Sam begged. “Why can’t you even speak about it? Why do you still go home with all those girls? Am I just one of them?”

“No!” Dean said. He blinked and seemed to sag a little, regarding Sam sympathetically, his lips turned down and his eyes softening. “No, you’re not. One of them, I mean. It’s not like that. And I’m— jesus, kid, I’m sorry about that guy at the bar, too.”

Matt was so far out of Sam’s mind that he might as well have never existed. “Please,” Sam whispered, his throat so constricted it felt like a snake was wrapping itself tighter around him. He swallowed, trying not to puke, trying not to cry, trying not to bolt and run for the hills. He kept his feet firmly planted, keeping still. “Please,” he said again, louder, “just talk to me. You keep replying to me but you’re not saying anything real.”

“God damn it, Sam,” Dean muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes wearily, his hand dragging down from his nose to scrub across his face. He didn’t say anything else, his gaze lowered, and Sam thought, that’s it, it’s over. Nothing happened, and it’s all over.

“I’ll go. Just… just tell me, and I’ll go,” he told Dean, his voice tightly strung and not much higher than a pin dropping, breaking on every other syllable. One more sentence and he’d be gone, his words would be dissolved into a fit of tears and frame-wracking sobs.

“What?! What, Sam, no I wasn’t— I’m just trying to gather my thoughts,” Dean rushed out, backing up a step as if to prevent Sam from leaving through the door. “It’s not a death sentence, jesus, kiddo. I’d never want you to leave, you got that? Just gimme a second. I’m not… I’m no good at this. Please.”

Sam couldn’t stop a tiny shiver that weaseled its way up his spine, but he gave Dean his moment, keeping his lips pressed shut and his eyes dry as he waited for Dean to speak. It was driving him insane, this waiting game. Since they started talking, he felt he couldn’t get a read on Dean, couldn’t anticipate what he was going to say. Dean held all the cards. He was embarrassed at how fast his anger had gone spiralling down the drain, reverting to that familiar sorrow, but at this point Dean was his whole world. It was a fact, and he wasn’t embarrassed to admit it. Dean was every single fucking atom in his universe and they were getting dangerously close to a black hole.

“Sammy,” Dean started, stating his name the way judges do right before the final verdict, and Sam waited. He forced himself to calm down, to stay grounded, to keep his eyes on Dean’s even though his entire body was screaming at him to look away and curl up and hide away forever.

The silence stretched on, broken only by the shitty, rattling motel furnace and the distant thrum of highway traffic outside.

“Christ. Sorry,” Dean finally muttered, looking away, his jaw working. “I’m, uh, uhm. I’m shit at talking, right? Can’t get a single word out without stuttering or fucking up.”

“Don’t…” Sam’s own voice trembled. “Don’t change the subject. Don’t avoid this. What’s so hard about this? If you really feel so… so grossly about me, then just say it. I’d rather know than stay up wondering.”

“Shut up.” Dean shook his head. “Why can’t I get it through that thick skull of yours? It’s not that.”

Sam couldn’t stop a short laugh from tearing desperately from his lips. “Then what is it, Dean?”

“It’s  _love_ , goddammit!” Dean shouted. “It’s stupid head-over-heels hold-your-goddamn-hand love! I fucking love you, okay? There! I said it! I love you, Sam! I love you so fucking much I’d sell my soul a billion more fucking times for you without batting an eye and that scares the shit outta me! I’ve never felt this way about anyone else in my entire life. It’s just you. Always you.”

Sam knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t get himself to shut it. A strained silence beat itself between them, and they were both counting the seconds as they passed. “Then why did you…?” he finally managed, trailing off and blinking.

“I fucked up, that’s what,” Dean whispered, and his eyes were bright and shiny under the bare lightbulbs fixed into the ceiling. “I thought… I dunno, I thought I could have something between us and cut out the whole love part, just learning your skin and then still having you like normal during the day. I was terrified of having something real between us. And when you— and when you kissed me back, just as if it was something fucking normal, like  _oh do your laundry, Sam, kiss your brother on the lips, Sam_ _—”_  Dean choked on whatever he was going to say next, like the words were coming out rancid, wrong, expired. In a way, they were— they should have talked about this miles ago, weeks ago, motel rooms ago. They’d let it curl and simmer for too long, but finally Sam had gotten Dean to talk.

“It scared me, that’s what,” he finally breathed, shaking his head and looking away from Sam. “I thought— I thought that you’d do whatever for me, mindlessly. Like it didn’t mean anything to you at all, that I could just take this and you’d say  _thank you, Dean.”_

“You should know me better than—” Sam started, his voice high and trembling, but Dean held up a hand, and Sam shut his mouth, swallowing thickly.

“I just kept overthinking and overthinking, and then it was too late, I had already fucking been with you, I had already fucking done that, and what kind of brother was I? I thought you didn’t love me and I still went for it, didn’t talk about it, because admitting what I felt seemed so much scarier, and I fucking knew it was tearing you up inside, but I was so damn terrified, Sam.

“I’m not… I don’t know if it was drilled in by Dad or if when Mom died something happened to me… but I can’t talk about this shit. It doesn’t exist. I don’t deserve… love… and certainly not from you, because you’re the only person I’d care to be loved by. I didn’t wanna talk about how I felt because you might not feel the same, or god help me Sam, you might feel _exactly_ the same. I was scared and weak and I thought I didn’t deserve it.”

“But you kept coming to me, all those nights,” Sam stated, emotionless, his lip wobbling.

“I know,” Dean’s voice cracked. “I was giving myself something rather than nothing, and that wasn’t fair to you. You should have fucking stopped me, Sam.”

“I couldn’t,” Sam said, his voice raw. It was now or never. “I couldn’t because I wanted all of it, just like you. I’ve loved you like this for who knows how long, Dean. It feels like my entire life I’ve been looking over at you and wishing for something that I knew was wrong. And then suddenly you were— you were kissing me, and then there was more, and even after I knew you’d never talk about it, I thought, _okay, this is better than nothing, this has to mean something_. But I can’t keep living on this. We can’t keep going on like this. And I’m not just going to pretend it all didn’t happen, either. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Dean.”

“Doesn’t it?” Dean challenged weakly. “I’m your older brother.”

“Does that change how you feel about me?” Sam nodded when Dean didn’t respond, encouraged. “I think— look at what we’ve done for people. For the whole planet. Look at who we are. No matter what you might think, I’m pretty sure we deserve this, if we want it. And I do. I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want you pushing me down at night and then feeling up someone else at the bar. I want… I want the whole fucking package. I want your kisses and I want you to touch me again, it’s been so long, and I want to hold your hand and watch movies with you in the bunker. Hell, I want to trade vows with you and settle down with you and wake up with you next to me every morning. I don’t care what that looks like to anyone else. I don’t care what anyone else wants. I want you, Dean, please.”

“I want you too, Sammy,” Dean smiled, but it burned out too early. “But-”

Sam stepped forward, taking both of Dean’s hands in his own. “But nothing,” he murmured, looking deeply into Dean’s eyes, their faces inches apart. Dean still looked so afraid, so lost, the years melting off, and Sam could hear his voice saying  _Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days_ _,_  and he could remember how warm Dean had felt beneath him on the apartment floor sometime around two in the morning.

He was already kissing Dean, his eyes closed, face serene, when he realized that he’d been running toward this his whole fucking life. Every action he’d ever made, every word that had made its way out of his mouth was one step closer to getting Dean, was something he did for Dean, because of Dean, or to Dean. Dean once told him drunkenly that he’d held Sam in his arms before Dad did, that Sam’s very first smile had been up at Dean.

Dean’s lips on his, he thought that made perfect sense. That this made perfect sense. That they clicked together like two halves to a whole, that he’d never felt more in place and safe in his skin than in this very moment.

Dean made the most desperate, heartbreaking sound, something born out of a need never attended to, and Sam wanted to say _me too, Dean,_ but he didn’t want to stop kissing his brother, either.

His decision was made for him when Dean moaned and deepened the kiss, urging Sam’s mouth open before plunging his tongue into it, lapping up into Sam, Sam tilting his head to give Dean the perfect access. Dean’s hands found Sam’s face and framed it, gently angling Sam this way and that as they made out like two lovestruck protagonists in a romantic comedy. He was sucking on Dean’s tongue, warm and content, when Dean pushed them apart with a pop.

“I’d uh… like to keep doing this but not upright in the middle of the room,” Dean said, his lips brushing against Sam’s, their foreheads pressed together.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, but he nodded, his forehead still smashed against his brother’s. Dean pulled back, his hands splayed on Sam’s biceps, sliding his fingers down Sam’s arm and taking Sam’s hand in his. He led Sam to one of the beds, guiding Sam down as if he couldn’t do it himself, and Sam settled himself slowly into the pillows as Dean lowered himself down on top of him, hands braced on either side of Sam. He sank down further, connecting his mouth to Sam’s, using his nose to nudge Sam’s chin up before kissing him deeply.

Sam didn’t know how long they stayed like that, flush against each other, practically their entire bodies touching. One of Dean’s hands had wandered to his hairline, running calloused fingers through Sam’s hair, over and over again, at a lazy speed that made Sam want to glue Dean’s hand to his head. It felt so good, so casual. Sam would be perfectly content with Dean touching his hair for a few more hours, but it seemed that Dean had other ideas.

Dean was slowly rutting up against him, his hard-on pressing against Sam’s thigh. Dean’s heart was beating madly, like he was running a marathon, but he was covering his anxiety pretty well by dotting kisses to the line of Sam’s jaw.

“Wait,” Sam gasped, loud enough to startle Dean in the relative silence, his hands finding the material of Dean’s shirt and pushing him up and away. Dean sat back, straddling Sam, just like that first godforsaken night, pausing there. His face battled over anger and sadness and just plain hurt before settling on neutrality, waiting for Sam to speak.

Sam was propped up on his elbows, biting his lip. “I just…” Sam hated how his voice was shaking, how he couldn’t look Dean in the eye. “I don’t want it to go right the sex, like how it was before we talked. Before we kissed. Please. I can’t have it like that… not since… I just haven’t been touched in so long. Please,” he finished lamely, blushing furiously, his eyes watering back up again as he turned his head to the side to avoid Dean’s gaze.

For a small moment, Dean appeared puzzled, but then Sam could see it in his eyes that he understood. And Dean’s eyes weren’t cruel or angry or judging— they were warm and soft, reading Sam so well, and finally opening up after years of shoving things inside.

“I think we both need that,” Dean told him gently, never breaking eye contact. “We’ll take it slow.”

Sam nodded, his chest moving up and down faster than he’d like, willing himself to calm down. Dean grinned down at him softly, openly, spreading a hand on Sam’s chest. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “Do you trust me?”

Sam nodded, breathless, and Dean nodded back, apparently satisfied, dipping back down and kissing Sam softly. He urged Sam’s mouth back open again, sucking on Sam’s bottom lip, before licking into Sam. Sam moaned softly, the sound an afterthought at the back of his throat, and Dean kissed him deeper for a few beats before raising himself off of Sam again.

“You mind taking off your shirt, Sammy?” Dean asked him, and part of Sam suddenly wanted to snap back at him not to treat him like a child, like how they usually were, but he nodded and perched himself on his elbows, Dean helping him get all of his limbs out of the shirt.

Dean looked down at him, just admiring, and pressed a kiss to Sam’s collarbone, then to the other, then to his tattoo. From his position spread over Sam’s chest, he looked up at Sam from under his eyelashes. “This okay?”

Sam felt a familiar, aching warmth spread throughout him as he nodded wordlessly at Dean, so fucking grateful his brother existed and that he was his. Dean put his hands wide over Sam’s hips, running them up and down the length of Sam’s torso.

Sam hadn’t been looked after this in so long, hadn’t been paid attention to quite so thoroughly, that he couldn’t help a little laugh of disbelief from escaping his lips, his eyes beading up. Dean looked at him and he just knew, just like older brothers were supposed to, and he kissed Sam quickly once on the lips for reassurance before continuing his exploration.

“I’m sorry, Sam.” A kiss pressed to his belly button.

“I’m gonna make it all up to you, okay?” Dean’s hands traced his ribs, one at a time.

“Don’t feel nervous. We both want this, like you said.” Dean’s lips drifted up to his nipples, dark and hard, and Sam’s breath hitched as Dean’s tongue ghosted over one and then the other.

“I’m gonna learn you, and this time I’m gonna take my time, and I’m gonna do it right. I do want this, you hear me? I won’t be distant. We’ll get through this.” He sucked on Sam’s nipple, keeping eye contact with Sam as he did.

Sam nodded, his throat too full to say anything. “Together,” he finally added, and laid completely back, giving his elbows a rest. Dean hummed his assent against Sam’s happy trail, rubbing his nose in every dip and curve of Sam’s body. Sam closed his eyes, just feeling Dean, feeling his cock slowly fill and press against his jeans. This was okay. This was different. He could do this.

By the time Dean reached the place where his bare chest ended and his jeans began, he was achingly hard, his dick twitching a little inside his pants when Dean paused and “hmm”ed up at him.

“Can I open this up?” he asked Sam, sitting back on his haunches and placing his fingers on the belt around Sam’s waist.

“Yeah,” Sam breathed, suddenly nervous again, “but just come up here when you’re done.”

“‘Kay,” was all Dean said, content, before he slid Sam’s belt out of the loops and popped open his jeans, sliding the zipper down. Sam’s dick was pressing against his boxers, tenting them, a little wet spot where the head met the fabric.

“This is a lot better than it was in dark,” Dean whispered heavily, tugging Sam’s jeans and boxers down together as Sam lifted his lips so Dean could get his clothes off of him. Once that was done, Dean tossed Sam’s clothes off the bed and threw his own shirt off, frantically unbuttoning his own pants and shrugging himself out of them.

Not wasting any time, Dean crawled up Sam’s body, kissing him and moving his hips against Sam’s, their dicks rubbing together with each thrust. Sam’s breaths came out of him in jagged little puffs and he threw his head back into the pillow, closing his eyes and baring his throat. His hair fanned around his face like a halo.

Dean looked down at the hickey Matt had given him- christ, Sam had already forgotten about that- and his eyes turned dark and possessive. He sucked a dark bruise onto his adam’s apple, higher up than Matt’s and darker, bigger. “Mine,” he growled, feeling Sam’s hips arch up against him, sinuous and slow, like a wave. He felt himself leaking, and willed himself not to get too heated, too fast, instead burying his face where Sam’s neck met his shoulder and breathing in the scent of him, slowing down his own hips just a little. He kissed Sam there, distracting himself, and felt Sam’s hands skate up and down his back, bumping over the muscles there.

No one else existed. They were completely lost in each other. The sounds of the highway and of the heater faded out of their ears as they zeroed in on each other, their lungs and hearts working in sync. Dean moved up to kiss Sam on the lips again, only breaking apart to breathe. He felt safer, felt stupid for being so afraid of what was so inherently rooted within not just him, but Sam as well. They kept kissing, rutting almost casually, hands running across planes of tanned skin and muscle, the feeling of touch lingering for a few seconds after the pads of fingers had moved on. They found a pattern and stuck to it, moving together.

Which is why Dean almost jumped out of skin when one of Sam’s hands found his dick. He broke apart from Sam’s mouth, looking down between them. His hair was brushing against Sam’s nose and Sam sniffed a little, adorably. Blood rushed to his dick so fucking fast when he realized Sam’s hands were big enough to hold both of them at once. Sam was running his hand up and down both of their lengths as they moved, jacking them off as their hips rose and fell.

They were moving in tandem now, Dean’s cock sliding down when Sam’s was up, and even as they passed each other like this, Dean could see Sam was bigger than him by at least two inches, but thinner and paler, only rosy red at the big, precome-shiny head. His own dick was thick and pink, thicker than Sam’s by a considerable margin. He felt Sam move against his hair and heard Sam’s breath pick up. Sam was looking down at them, too, watching the heads of their dicks rub and slide past each other. Their dicks twitched eagerly at the same time and Dean laughed, deepening his thrusts and kissing Sam again, both of them smiling against the kiss.

“This is…  _sooooo nice,”_  Dean moaned into Sam’s mouth, and Sam just kissed him back harder in response, his back arching higher off the bed and his hand moving more frantically. To Sam, it was all over— every stroke of Dean against him crackled electrically through his body. It was like he was reacting to having not been touched for so long, like his body was greedily soaking it all in, getting the most out of every touch.

Sam made a little whine and Dean was pretty far gone himself, rutting up against Sam like some inexperienced horny teenager. Sam wasn’t faring any better, breathing heavily through his nose as he made out with Dean and fucked up against him.

Dean felt that familiar tightening in his balls, his pulse speeding up, and he forced himself off of Sam, sitting back on his haunches again. He gave himself one rough tug, from the base of his cock to the head, just to keep himself going for a little bit.

“If we keep going like this, I’ll be gone,” Dean told a flushed-pink Sam. Do you wanna do, that, or…?”

“Make love to me,” Sam breathed, his mouth hanging open, “like you said, this time we’re doing it right.”

Dean closed his eyes, sagging on his heels as he took in Sam’s ragged voice. He did fucking want this. He could almost imagine the universe shouting  _“FINALLY!”,_  celebrating their inevitable coming-together, pun intended.

Dean nodded, coming to his senses, and crawled off of Sam to get the condoms and lube out of his pack.

“Wait,” Sam’s voice called him back, and he stood, looking back at his brother with an eyebrow raised questioningly. Sam was stroking his own dick frantically, which made Dean want to stop him, but Sam’s words stopped that train of thought in its tracks.

“Do we need the condom?” Sam panted.

“Uh…” Dean trailed off, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You want me to go bare?” He tried to come across as concerned, but his dick moved again, betraying him. Sam’s eyes dragged down to it and he licked his lips.

“Unless you caught something,” Sam said, challenging him.

“What about you?” Dean retorted, frozen, standing naked in the middle of a motel room.

“Clean,” Sam said, grinning cockily. “Just the lube.”

“ _Hhh_ … okay,” Dean agreed, his voice reed-thin, his legs wobbling as he crouched down and found the bottle of lube in his bag. He walked back to Sam, their eyes doing that god damn magnet thing again, and Sam lifted his legs, his knees jutting up into the air as he spread his thighs.

“Jesus,” Dean couldn’t stop the word from leaving his mouth. He crouched between Sam’s legs, suddenly unsure, even though he had done this under the sheets so many times before. Sam’s hand was on his own dick again, and Dean viewed it as a sort of warning, that he better get this going or Sam was going to finish by himself.

He popped open the cap and spread a generous amount of lube onto his fingers before setting the bottle on the nightstand. He slicked up his dick first, then moved his fingers down through the wiry hair around Sam’s cock, massaging Sam’s balls in his hands before finally running his fingers around Sam’s hole.

Sam was beginning to really sweat, his skin shiny, pools of it gathering in his tummy and by his collarbones. He had his eyes closed and his mouth open. Dean watched his stomach move up and down, his dick dark and full against it, before pressing one finger in one-knuckle deep, working slowly in and out of Sam.

The time’s he’d done this before, he’d been fast and ruthless, working Sam quickly open with three fingers before just fucking right into him, balls deep on first thrust, listening to Sam’s sharp cries and moans.

He wasn’t going to fucking hurt Sam at all this time.

He took his time with just one finger, humming some tuneless Aerosmith song, only adding a second finger when Sam started cussing him out for moving too slowly. He was used to it fast and hard— and while Dean acknowledged him, pressing a second finger in, watching Sam’s hold clench around him, he was gonna make love to Sam slowly, feel it down to his bones and come with his eyes rolled back in his head. He planned on it.

Sam took three fingers easily, and Dean pulled them out, scooting up and lining his dick up with Sam’s hole. He pressed the head right up against the rim and Sam’s breathing sped up even more, his stomach going almost concave, his ribs jutting out. Dean lowered himself down over Sam, a hand on his dick pushing himself slowly into his brother. He sank balls deep into Sam, and they were both grunting and panting already, noses brushing against each other.

He stilled himself above Sam like this, trying to get a feel for it, feeling Sam’s warmth tight around his length. Sam’s asshole clenched and Dean shuddered, finally getting moving, rearing back until his dick was almost completely out of Sam before sinking all the way in again, agonizingly slow and sweet, the warmth spreading throughout his body. He picked up the pace when Sam swung his legs around Dean’s waist, his heels digging into the curve of his ass. He fisted a hand in Sam’s hair, pulling his head back and kissing him open-mouthed, swallowing down his moans.

Sam kept clenching around him, the muscles working down in a line, and his heels kept pressing Dean further in, but Dean was trying to pace himself. He went a little faster, a little shallower, just for a moment to give Sam what he wanted before sinking all the way in again, biting Sam’s shoulder as he worked his hips up and down, seating himself all the way inside Sam over and over again.

Sam groaned, long and loud and sultry, and made a huffing noise before grabbing Dean by the face and kissing him again, tugging Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth.

It just felt so damn good. He was full of Dean, covered with Dean, made fucking whole by Dean. He loved how Dean felt inside him like this, how warm Dean’s skin felt against his. He writhed a little bit, trying to press even more of Dean deeper inside him, trying to fill himself up with his brother.

Dean unwrapped his hands from Sam’s hair and instead slid his arms under Sam’s, hugging Sam close to him before shifting his position, just a little, and speeding up. Sam was sort of in his lap now— Dean’s arms hugging around his back had pushed Dean farther into him.

Sam shouted once, his legs spasming around Dean’s hips, and Dean knew he’d found the right spot.

He fucked a little harder, paying attention to hitting the head of his dick in the same spot over and over again, moving a little faster as Sam started blubbering nonsense, moaning and whining and whimpering and arching up under Dean, his head tossing left and right—

Oh, fuck.

Dean pulled Sam close again and let loose, grunting against Sam’s lips, shutting down the rest of Sam’s moans with a heated kiss as he pulled back and rammed into his brother, his hips working with a mind of their own as he pushed into Sam over and over and over again, the bed creaking and headboard thumping against the wall with an increasingly faster rhythm.

They were both making noises into each other’s mouths now, kissing and moaning and breathing heavily and moving together, arching up and down into each other, Sam doing just as much work as Dean as he constantly shifted on the bed, angling Dean closer to his prostate.

Dean broke apart from Sam’s mouth, forehead-to-forehead. He growled, his movements turning erratic and rougher and ruffer.

“Fuck, Sammy, god, fuck, I—”

His eyes didn’t just roll into his head, his vision fucking whited out as he buried himself deep into his little brother, his balls slapping noisily against Sam’s rim as he bit down on Sam’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood, coming in rough spurts inside Sam, bare.

Sam cried out, his voice going four octaves higher than normal as he started begging Dean, whimpering and whining and going “ah, ah, ah,  _Dean_ ,” until his cock jerked up against Dean’s tummy and Dean felt a warmth spread between them as Sam came on both of their stomachs. Sam came like a pornstar, in thick, ropy pulses, covering himself in spunk up to his neck, still panting and moaning as he finished himself off, tugging hard on his dick in long, sure movements.

Dean realized Sam hadn’t been touching himself at all before that moment, coming on the feeling of Dean up his ass alone.

Moaning again, Dean slowly slid himself out of Sam, the head of his dick catching briefly on the rim before falling against his thigh. He got off the bed and stood up, going down on one leg because his muscles were so fucking weak before he managed to find his balance.

Sam was laughing at him, but he sounded so wrecked, like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“Shut up, you loser,” Dean croaked, wobbling his way over to the bathroom. He brought back a wet washcloth and gingerly cleaned Sam up, wiping the come from his stomach and from where it was leaking out of his pretty, pink, wide hole.

Dean spent some time admiring that, how Sam was still open and clenching around nothing, Dean’s semen leaking out of him and onto the bed. When Dean was done mopping up their mess, he tossed the cloth onto the floor and crawled up into bed with Sam, tugging the sheets over them.

He curled up naked alongside his brother, burying his face in Sam’s skin and letting Sam wrap his gigantor arms around him, sighing once, deeply, as he held his brother.

Sam carefully kissed the top of his head before settling down, his nose pressed to the top of Dean’s head. Sam was asleep in seconds, his breathing evening out and his arms loosening around Dean, and Dean stayed there, lying awake, revelling in the feeling of Sam around him and replaying their sex in his head.

It was the best goddamn sex Dean had ever had, and he planned to be able to say that every day for the rest of his life, having Sam on every available surface in the bunker. Maybe they’d stay there for a bit, finally buy a couch. Take a short break from hunting just to get their bearings, just to get one hundred percent comfortable with each other.

 _Yeah,_  he thought, closing his eyes and letting Sam’s body heat envelope him,  _that sounds nice._

_ONE YEAR LATER_

When Sam woke up, it was to his own voice moaning as he came.

Dean had made it a personal goal to be able to swallow down Sam’s semen without choking on it, and apparently he had decided to celebrate achieving his goal by waking Sam up with his lips around his cock, sucking him down like a fucking champ.

“Warn.. a … fucking guy,” Sam finally dragged out, still half-asleep and now blissed out from getting blown.

“Couldn’t,” Dean coughed, wiping his mouth of Sam’s come and his own spit with the back of his hand, “you were asleep.”

Sam scoffed. “Jerk.”

Dean hummed, sitting up and smiling at Sam. “Bitch.”

Dean crawled up Sam’s body, slotting himself between Sam’s legs and kissing Sam good morning. Sam sighed against the kiss, utterly content, the band around his ring finger cold against Dean’s fingers as Dean pinned him down, making their moment last just a little bit longer before they had to face the day.

He could feel Dean’s own band on his skin, and for a moment he was blown away that this was reality. That during their last pilgrimage to Vegas, Dean had gotten down on one knee out on the desert after agreeing to go camping with him (tent sex is not the best, but works, considering) and proposed.

Sam had said yes before Dean was even done with his introductory sentence. Dean had complained that he had a whole speech prepared, but he was allowed to breathe it against Sam’s back later that night against a motel room door, so it was alright.

The hunts had drizzled down from every couple of weeks to once a month to only when they were around Lebanon to never, Sam instead working a blog and phonelines to help other hunters out and identify creeping creatures. Dean liked sitting on Sam’s lap and distracting Sam as he babbled on in nerdspeak, earning him a light swat to the head but nothing further.

Their paths through the woods were easily maintained. Dean’s favorite place was out by the lake, where Sam, on a picnic blanket, had ridden him for the first time. Dean even fixed up the greenhouse in the back for Sam, where Sam maintained some plants, most of which they ended up using on pizzas and in Sam’s salads.

But the most important thing was that, against all odds, they were happy. They were  _safe_. The years went by without hurried, panicked hospital trips or times spent apart, separated by other people or by broken words.

They were pretty much one unit, like they always had been, but more defined. More resolute. Dean loved Sam. Sam loved Dean. When Sam had finally gotten up the courage to say it one night before bed, Dean had said it right back, no longer afraid. Touches weren’t stolen or neglected anymore. They touched whenever they could, whether it was thighs pressed up on the couch during movie night or their bodies naked and lined up with each other.

Things felt so real for Sam for the first time in years. He felt more confident, reassured in himself and his body. Dean worked on the Impala and on the Men of Letter’s other cars, occasionally taking them out for a spin and, when Sam was feeling generous, some great road head.

When Sam finally got out of bed, Dean was already in the kitchen, his back to Sam, standing over the stove and belting out “Sweet Emotion” as he cooked some bacon. Sam padded quietly over, only in pajama bottoms and a single clip in his hair, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist from behind and settling his chin on Dean’s shoulder, watching his progress as he cooked.

Dean only stopped singing for a small moment to turn his head and peck Sam on the lips. Sam smiled in response, listening to Dean’s rendition of the song as he flipped the bacon.

“When will this all be ready?”

“You’re gettin’ impatient, babe. Just ten minutes.”

“Hmm.”

Dean rolled his eyes and kept singing.

Sam pulled his head back, rubbing his hands up and down Dean’s sides. He pulled away after landing a kiss on the crown of Dean’s head, walking back to the little formica table and flopping down into a chair in front of it.

He yawned loudly, just to annoy Dean, stretching his arms over his head and listening to his back pop. He sat back, watching Dean’s shoulders move as he prepared their breakfast, and grinned faintly, his eyes going soft and he went over how fucking lucky he was.

Not everyone gets to grow up with their soulmate and the love of their lives. 

Smugly, he updated his favorite tally:

The universe: 2

Sam: 1,000,000 

When Dean ended his song, he whistled and pointed to the coffee maker, which was just finishing up a brew. “God, I fucking love you,” Sam grumbled tiredly, getting a mug out from the cupboard and filling it with coffee, made just how he liked it. The sugar packets were already lined up by the maker. “Always reading my mind and shit.”

“You know it,” Dean agreed, beaming toothily as Sam dumped atrocious amounts of sugar into his coffee.

When breakfast was finished cooking, Sam was already salivating, his tummy rumbling as he smelled the bacon grease and the eggs.

“Here you go, sugar,” Dean said, plopping a plate down in front of him. “The pancakes have chocolate chips in them, you dirty secret sugar addict you.”

“You’re only fueling this addiction,” Sam griped, drowning his pancake in syrup before taking a bite. “I held myself back for like thirty fucking years, that’s impressive.”

“Forgetting our childhood, Sammy? I’m offended.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam replied, indignant, his voice muffled by eggs.

“You had a phase where you would only eat the marshmallows from Lucky Charms.”

“I was a different person back then.”

“Okay, buddy.”

“Fuck off.” Sam swallowed. “Shit, you have to hold an intervention.”

“What if I like you all sweetened up, baby?”

“You’re an enabler!” Sam burst out, laughing. Dean joined in, sliding into his own seat at the table and digging in. The giggling continued on, especially after Dean started a round of footise war under the table and almost knocked Sam’s coffee over when he put a foot in Sam’s crotch and Sam jerked, his gangly knees hitting the underside of the table.

Any disputes were solved when dinner ended, their voices silenced by a sugary-sweet makeout session against the countertop. Dean finally broke apart, chiding Sam for neglecting his clean-up duties, and Sam slapped his ass as they set to cleaning counters and putting dishes in the sink.

“Happy now?” Sam said, gesturing to their spotless kitchen.

“Definitely,” Dean said, and he meant it.

 


End file.
